North Woods Winter #phenology

Monday will be the Feast of the Ephipany, the celebration of the arrival of the three wise men to visit the infant Jesus and the end of the Christmas season. Monday or Tuesday we'll start to take down our Christmas decorations and pack them away until next December. To replace the Christmas greenery and ease the transition, the Better Half has wisely and kindly added a pot of "Spring bulbs" to join the amaryllis and orchids on the windowsills. Watching the emerging green shoots brightens the dreariest Winter's day.

Now that we're well into January, it's time to share part of a Christmas present my son gave me. The present is a book by Janine M. Benyus, the same person who wrote Biomimicry. It's titled Northwoods Wildlife, A Watcher's Guide to Habitats. The shared information comes from a section headed "Wildlife Events Calendar."

results of a pileated's drumming

Photo by J. Harrington

Although January, near the end, is close to the nadir of Winter in our North Country, hints of the upcoming Spring season begin to appear this month in the form of:

• pileated woodpecker's drumming to proclaim a pair's territory


• chickadees start to sing their Spring song


• crossbills may start to nest


• great horned owls begin to hoot to proclaim nesting territory

never mind the snow, listen for a chickadee's Spring song

Photo by J. Harrington

We'll no doubt have to clear the driveway a number of times more before we can take a "let it melt" attitude. We may even have to confront a polar vortex or two before a returning sun and lengthening days bring longer term respite from cold and snow. I know that I find it encouraging to pause the snowblower and listen to a "dee-dee-dee" or a "who-who-who" or a "rat-a-tat-tat," to be reminded that those who live closer than I to our North Country weather patterns know that, for anyone not relying on the subnivean zone, better days are just a little ahead.

January 6

By Vicki Hearne

We must stop bragging. There are limits

For us to the cold and the twelfth night

Marks them all. Just off the coast of Maine

The lobster boats pass, dragging their nets.

Capsize once in a while, in water

Like that you die, that’s all, that water

Isn’t even frozen. Not even

Frozen, and that’s as cold as it gets.

The hearts of birds beat voraciously

So they keep warm, so if you put out

A feeder, keep it full of the seeds

Their hearts feed on, then it is only

When their food runs out that you find them

Inexpressibly taut in hollows,

And that’s as cold as it ever gets.

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